1929 Anaïs Nin on 2018 Karla

— From "The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume Four, 1927 – 1931," from the diary entry dated 27 February 1929.

It's almost that time of year: 2018 is coming to an end, and everyone is making time for some introspection.

When your birthday is at the tail end of October, it feels redundant to have two big reflections about the year just two months apart. The things I realized on my birthday are still... pretty much the same things I'm reflecting on as the year comes to a close.

I turned twenty-seven almost eight weeks ago. I have also become many things in the last few months (lawyer, aunt, colleague, among others). But — and I say this with no bitterness, only a quiet sort of acceptance — I am also, still, very much, not a lot.

To be quite honest, I am still having trouble with that paragraph, Anaïs. "No book, no stage career, a lot of unsatisfied desires, and a realization that I am half of what I hope to be."

But I'm trying. I'm trying really hard.

It's terrifying to acknowledge this status quo, because I'm no failure - and to say that I am would only make me sound ungrateful. I only prayed for one thing this year, and I was given so much more. I had goals: I reached them. And I am very, very thankful.

With age comes the weight of many kinds of sadnesses that have no name. It's the kind of sadness that comes from little things that, as a much younger person, you so easily managed to brush off. Like realizing you are drifting apart from some of your friends, or discovering that you are no longer as agile as you used to be, or finding out that you may never get to see the world as much as you want. Meeting people at an inopportune time. Losing interest in things that used to excite you. Making mistakes at work. Coming to terms with a disorder. Accepting your parents' aging. Realizing your nation is in shambles. Dealing with someone's death. These are not things that are supposed to stop you from reaching more goals, from achieving more things. But ostensibly, these are considerations that now weigh heavily on your mind when you start thinking about what lies ahead, when you wonder about taking big risks.

With age comes the weight of fear.

Have you ever changed your mind about anything that used to excite you? I had a childhood dream of going skydiving. I used to tell myself, "That's on top of my bucket list." But as the years go by, it becomes less and less enticing. It's just utterly terrifying now. What if I die? Who takes care of my family? What about master's? Who gets to read the excerpts of my book? And even if at the back of my head, I know that it's something I can do, I'm no longer sure if it's something I should.

The world says, don't let fear stop you. In theory, I know it should not. But when you've started nestling comfortably into a status quo that is just okay, you develop this instinct to not change it. "I have enough sadnesses to keep me company and anchor me into this safety," I tell myself.

See, this particular brand of fear is not a badge I like to wear.

But like I said a few months back, I like putting on masks of courage. There is comfort in my pretense. So every once in a while, I allow myself to admit my fears. Because when I do, I am forced to talk myself out of it. (Or more accurately, I find old books and passages and authors who will talk me out of it. Tonight, I scoured my bookshelf and it's Miss Nin.) Even if it means writing another "reflection paper" just eight weeks after my birthday "essay." Sometimes, it comes as a time when I should be doing something else, like preparing my daily service report.

Well, consider this today's service report: I am not a lot of things yet. And that terrifies me, because what if I never become everything I ever hoped? But I acknowledge that I am all the things that happened to me this year - and more. For now, that should be enough. Every day, I keep trying to be a better, kinder person to myself. I am grateful for what the universe was generous enough to give me. And whatever lies ahead, I should be ready. I put on this mask, and I try to be convincing, even and most especially to myself. I owe it to all twenty-seven years in me to really try.

Both "terribly, profoundly happy" and "terribly, profoundly unhappy." But I will be okay. I'm okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay.

(R)evolutions

I say to myself as I brush my hair for the seventh time last Friday. I wear my hair like my crown: in glory. That is to say, I feel like all the pain in the world is surmountable as long as my shiny black hair cascades down past my shoulders before curling ever so slightly by the end. It's therapeutic, in many ways, when I fidget over my hair. It makes me feel like I am in control over something I do not find attractive naturally. (You see, I have waves, and I hate them. So I straighten them out because it makes me feel better. Control is calming.) How shallow, people say, to not allow yourself to embrace your flaws. In my head, I retort back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and live out versions of yourself you like better.

Quiet and kind. Quiet and kind.

I have to remind myself to remain as such, even when the world yells out and becomes otherwise.

Another revolution2 around the sun has passed for me. So much of my reflections in the last year, I've never written down. I never even bothered. I think, for the most part, it's because I was too busy living in the moment, enjoying newfound freedom (or the lack thereof, lol, sad reaccs onli), celebrating the biggest triumph of my life thus far.

But also, I think it's because I'm afraid that writing them down somehow diminishes their value. Odd, isn't it? Sometimes, keeping notes for posterity robs them the illusion of being — feeling — real. Because the words can never really fully encapsulate certain moments. And every attempt at restructuring them with sentences is always going to be futile. So I let them stay in my head, where they are pure, and untouched, and vivid, and colorful, and untainted by my incapacity to recreate them. Where I can relive them resoundingly in my head, as I nestle comfortably into muted smiles.

The truth is the revolution in me is loud.

Certain parts of me feel awakened, while other parts feel indifferent. These parts I cannot always reconcile. How dramatic, you say. But it merits a loud, heavy sigh — or a laugh, disguising a cry — every time I realize some clocks are ticking quicker than they used to: biological, emotional, spiritual.

The revolution in me is loud, but every day I try to find reasons to keep it down. Why? Because I actually like the pretense. I like putting on a brave face. I don't mind never letting my guard down. I don't like others fussing over me. I wear my brave face like I wear my hair: in glory. How tiring, people say, to always have to convince others that you are fine. On this space, I say back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and embrace a braver, softer version of you, one that you actually like better.

Quiet and kind. I have to remind myself to be quiet and kind, always, in all ways. I have the love of people I love, and the grace to accept the present, even if it means embracing the uncertainties of the future. What is there to not be thankful for? What is there to be so noisy about? Why bother myself with worries, when I can instead live in the moment — not verbalizing every thought, not overthinking every concern, not deprecating every second of pure joy?

The revolution2 is both quiet and loud.

But I hope the revolution1 in me will always be kind. It will be compassionate, and it will always surrender to my belief in serendipity, in goodness finding its way back to me at the right time. Because this is what I know best. Because this is the only way I know how. I will manage, and it will be alright,3 and it will be all right.4

__1 - a sudden radical or complete change.2 - the movement of an object in a circular or elliptical course around an axis.3 - fine.4 - according to fact or truth.

Seven excerpts, before twenty-seven

They say birthdays are a time for introspection. Well, I found my old college notebook from one of my poetry classes early this morning, and it did make me think about some of my favorite poems.

One
From "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terr-
ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to
choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you
don't even have a name for.

Two
From "Small Wire" by Anne Sexton

As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.

Three
From "Rain" by Danton Remoto

But you are here,
in the country of my mind,
wiping away the maps
of mist
on the window pane,
lying beside me,
as the pulse of the pillows and sheets—
even the very throb of rain—
begins to quicken.

Four
From "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Five
From "Before Bed" by Zora Howard

I is a still wet concrete
and here comes you,
a brazen unkempt boy,
carving your gang signs all up alongside me with an unassuming stick.
Where is your home training?
Why do you make the city of me so unbecoming?
Your language is hardening in this landscape of mine.
Everyone will pass here
and what will they find?
That I am your block,
I am your boulevard,
your bayou,
And baby,
I don’t mind,
I don’t mind,
I don’t mind.

Six
From "Send Me To The Moon" by Conchitina Cruz

Lay down your arms where I can
stay in them and send me to the moon, forget the freaks
we ran away from one afternoon by the library, the guard whistling in the hall,
the howl and swagger and the fall—
Haven’t we all made that jump? Haven’t we all heard
the plunk, the mere grunt of you,
the mere spunk of you, reeking of musk
while teaching me physics, crawling down the road piss drunk
at 3 am, plastered and master
to none, pushing my head down in cars all over town—
Don’t we all stoop and deliver?
And so, what now, hopping from bed to bed, all red with rage,
the age of the wine on the label tossed
in the wastebasket, the taste
of it all, the last of it all, the pale madness of this song,
my thong tugged at again
by your wandering fingers, still smelling of
another sweet wonder—Don’t we all
have another? Where are my fangs?
Where are my pangs of guilt for my sins, where the wince
in the eternal threat of end, how mend the night’s
idiosyncrasy, the spittoon in the fantasy
of ordinary life, your wife,
my darling nonbeliever, my unwarranted claim.

Seven"It is not impossible to survive—" by Lauryn K. Alleyne

You have mastered solitude, struggled to unpack
the thick realities of time and matter. Love has flattened
you. Measured, you have faced your least loveliness.

How fragile God’s graffiti, the text of us scrawled
wild, twisted into this renegade, complex sentence
of living! How the making betrays and becomes us!

Look at the tree revise its body daily, spectacularly
rendered through the small violence of loss. If nothing
else, learn this: You are not broken, but rearranged.

Talk throughs and celestial (un)certainties

The thing about being in school for so long is that you stop feeling like having a life outside the four corners of most rooms - a classroom, the library, your condo unit - feels like a transgression. Any time spent with friends or family without books or cases, you start feeling guilty. Days are counted by the number of hours you have to either earn your breaks or make up for it. You never get to fully engage your self in certain social situations, because at the back of your head you're always worrying about crawling back to your readings.

Now that law school and bar review is over (for good, HELL YEAH), I'm slowly easing my way into having a social life. I get to have dinner with friends and have meaningful conversations that I can fully immerse myself in because things are - well, not easier, per se, but - less stifling.

Which is an opportune time, I guess, especially now that I feel like I'm going through an internal crisis of sorts. I'm navigating through grief, I'm coming to terms with certain realities about being an adult, I'm feeling angry and frustrated about our nation's institutions falling apart - and I can't do that alone. Or, maybe I can. But I appreciate the company of people going through the same things, riding out the same waves.

Of knowing that you have allies, in your principles and in your passions.

Listening is underrated. There is comfort in conversation, folks. It liberates.

___

Somewhere in the digital sea of old files in my hard drive is an old screenplay I wrote for class. I never got to finish it - never even got it to take off to any kind of conflict - but I recall it was about fortunes being told, and fates being decided by the stars.

A girl opens her palm to a mysterious lady under a tree. It was mid-afternoon when she stepped out of work for a smoke. The lady called to her and asked her if life consumed her the way the puffs of smoke did. Out of both curiosity and boredom, she approached her and sought out answers for questions she didn't dare ask. But my script ended there because I had no knowledge of palm reading, and did not have insights on what it meant to predict futures.

Venus is about to enter retrogade, so goes much of Twitter today. I try not to take these things seriously, but sometimes there is comfort in hanging on to so-called certainties found in celestial bodies.

Scorpio sun, Libra rising, Moon in Gemini, Venus in Virgo, reads my birth chart. What does it mean? I sift through readings, I scroll through interpretations. I press like when I recognize myself, which is just about thirty percent of the time. I know none of these matter in the real world, and almost all of it is never really true. But I still find myself Googling through meanings every now and then, hoping to make sense of feelings that shouldn't be there but just are.

Is this part of the quarter-life, suddenly seeking new lenses through which to view life?

One of my best friends has recently thrown all caution in the wind and professed faith in horoscopes. I message her about these fears of mine every now and then, and she tells me how "Scorpio" or how "Libra" I am, or reminds me that this is just how it is for "Moons in Gemini." I sometimes don't know what she means, but I find myself being okay with it. Normally, I would scoff at such frivolities, but these days, I feel like exchanges like this are more comforting than "real talks" where practicalities are clearly defined.

How naive, Karla. Also, how delusional. You think putting your head above the clouds makes sense?

No, but, somehow it makes things more easily digestible.

And I feel like this is probably how it is for a lot of people. There's a reason why millennials cling to astrology so badly these days, out of irony, but maybe also out of desperation. These horoscopes, and personality tests, and astral charts - all coping mechanisms, and to a certain extent, they work. If it gets one going and allows you to still wake up, find the courage to carry on, and do some good in the world, then why not.

Outside, people are starving, dying. There is turmoil, and chaos, and fear. There is this nagging feeling of "Why can't I do anything about it?" All that we've known, and all that we've been taught - they all feel useless. The world is becoming more and more cruel, slowly and surely gnawing at whatever is left of our idealism.

The future is scary and overwhelming, the present, even more so. None of us have the answers, but all of us have the same questions. I guess it's in these times where we're allowed to find something to hold onto these days, no matter how capricious.

Is this being a Scorpio, or is this just being a 26-year-old?

___

Facebook's "On This Day" reminded me that six years ago, I was eagerly anticipating the release of Red. Yep, that Taylor Swift album.

October 2012 feels like a lifetime ago. I am no longer in that same head space, no longer heartbroken and tired. I no longer have the same feelings of love-and-hate towards Taylor Swift (these days, it's more of just ambivalence). But it is still my favorite album of hers, for many reasons, the first of them being "State of Grace."

I am turning 27 soon. In twenty-one days to be exact. I am both excited and terrified, because 26 was so good to me. It was incredible and exhilarating and generous. But 27 is a little more uncertain: no more goal posts, no more clearly defined finish lines. Only an open race that leads to... what exactly? I have no idea.

"This is a state of grace / this is a worthwhile fight," I remember singing this song while cramming for Persons as a first year student. It carried me through that exam. Will it carry me through this month, nay, this year?

Let's check in with "On This Day" next year to find out.

__

A very good friend has been telling me to keep writing. I don't have anything to write about, I say. And worse, I don't have the time.

Well, here: fragments of thoughts at 5:21 in the afternoon, on a Friday. It's not much, but it's still something. Maybe one day I'll get back to that screenplay. But until then, this will have to do.

________________________________________________________________

beer cold and a mental hold

The other day, I was raising my beer in honor of Chris Cornell again. It was a night out with the partners and my fellow associates, and Audioslave came on. I started mouthing the words to "Be Yourself" - as one should - when the partner noticed me and gave me high-five. Two seconds later we were both air-drumming and banging our heads to the song, while simultaneously mourning Cornell's death all over again.

Some griefs we never really get over, huh.

And then over the weekend, I started listening to Mac Miller. Coming clean here: I'm not a big fan of hip-hop, even though I've tried so many times to really get into it. It's just a matter of preference, I guess. But I do appreciate a good track every now and then. So I'm always pleasantly surprised when I come across a song, and an album even, that truly captures my attention. The Divine Feminine is what got me the last two days. Another confession: I'm a casual Ariana fan. "So Into You" is my perpetual perk-me-up/gusto-ko-lumandi jam. I cried after the Manchester bombing. I tried following Big Sean because of her ("Best Mistake" is fire, okay.) I fangirl over her and Pete Davidson, and watched all his SNL videos because of their crazy, whirlwind engagement. Oddly though, I never really got into Mac Miller even though I kind of liked "Favorite Part."

Which is something I now regret, because I realize now how much of an artist he is. I guess what I appreciated about him as I waded through his tracks on Spotify is that his songs aren't just words. He experimented with instruments, he played with different genres, mixing together jazz and soul and hip-hop. He spoke simply, but surely. He was no singer, but he lets his heart warble through the pain to seek bliss, albeit temporary. And, I guess, what made me keep listening was this: even though he had his demons, it was evident that he fervently believed in love. I listened to The Divine Feminine and heard a man who just wanted to make a woman happy. Maybe, he thought, by pleasing you, I can please myself. And what greater satisfaction is there than by giving, and seeing someone receive you, fully, unconditionally?

How sad that the demons in his head had to take him away. I respect Ari's decision for walking away - and I will always root for any woman who has to leave behind someone they love dearly if the relationship is taking a toll on their physical, emotional, and mental well-being. But, I also can't help but feel sad that he couldn't handle it on his own. Everyone was rooting for him. He deserved more time.

Him and Chris, really.

And everyone else. We all deserve more time.

How lucky we are to have their music to keep us going, when the artists themselves failed at it. I hope we all manage to wade on through, to swim it out, to keep walking, until one day, without us realizing it, we bump into a sense of purpose. A state of mind that will truly, fervently have us believe that life is meaningful. Or not even that - just the general assurance that hey, life isn't bad. Maybe that should be enough.

__

Off to a hearing. Do I know what I'm doing? Yes. Do I really know what I'm doing? No. Did I just spend half an hour preparing a playlist composed of Cornell and Miller songs instead of replying to an e-mail, just to get me going through this day - nay, this week? Maybe. Do I need more beer in my life? Absolutely. We do what we have to do to keep going, right?

________________________________________________________________

The minutiae of death - and life - are messy

Forty days ago, my uncle passed away. He was forty-four years old. He had a heart attack in his home - we tried to bring him to the hospital but he was declared dead on arrival. I saw and oversaw everything.

I had three long cries: one, when they were wheeling his body into the morgue; two, during his funeral. And one random morning to work, at the back of my papa's car, both of us bawling our eyes out in silence.

I should already be used to this, I think. And yet, I'm not.

I have conflicted feelings about death. In the last fourteen years, six family members have died. Four grandmothers, one aunt, one uncle. All of them, incredibly close to me. I grew up in a small town, and with very few relatives. The attachment I had with each of them ran deep, because I was an only child whose first pals were the grown-ups around me. They were friends to me. The funny thing is, when I close my eyes and try to remember them, I don't recall big gestures or grand occasions. I remember the way they held my hand; the way they coughed; the way they would stroke my hair; the way "Amen" rolls of their tongue when they pray. I remember the little things; and it's the little things that set me off, every damn time. One would think I have gone through the stages of grief enough times to master it already - on the contrary, no. I am still going through it, and probably will never reach the end.

It never ends, this grief.

Last Friday, I came across an old Esquire article in our office lobby. "Exhumation" by Vanni De Sequerra. In sum, it's an essay about the author's experience exhuming the bones of his deceased father to have them cremated and transferred to a columbarium.

It's grotesque, and sad, and fascinating in a way that only a person dealing with prolonged grief can understand. I've seen dead loved ones - I've seen *bones* of dead loved ones - but not this. Although, I fear that one day I may have to. It's twisted, how I feel about certain things like death and sorrow. On the one hand, I now feel like I am more prepared than any one I know. (Claiming a body from the morgue? Check. Paying for the hospital bills and getting the death certificate? Easy. Choosing a casket? Fine. Securing a burial certificate? Done. I know all the intricacies surrounding death by now. Guess I'm an expert.) On the other, I know that all the grieving I've gone through places me in an even more vulnerable position when someone dies again. I'll be carrying an even heavier burden, a sadness whose weight will quadruple in an instant, and that's terrifying.

This is what I haven't been telling people about me, and probably what I haven't been admitting to myself either. I am sad. I am a less-happier version of myself for every tragedy, and it will never be the same. Am I able to carry on and live life normally despite their absence? Yes. Have I accepted the fact that losing loved ones is part of life? Yes. Have I become closer to God because of this sorrow? Yes. Am I thankful for the gift of life? Yes. But am I still sad? YES. The truth is, no matter how many "Life goes on," and "Things happen for a reason," quotes I read, I am - and will probably always be - perpetually burdened by the weight of all these deaths.

And it is this concept of continuous, uninterrupted blues that I have to learn how to deal with.

How do I go about this? If my mom reads this, she'll call me up and say "Hindi ka kasi nagdadasal." ("You haven't been praying enough.") But I have prayed this sadness away for years, and I think I've turned my mind inside and out enough times to come to the conclusion that maybe this is just how grief feels like for some of us. Never fully coming to terms with death, but just getting used to it. We get used to the person's absence, but we never stop hurting. And then eventually, we get used to the pain too.

People ask me why I sometimes make jokes about dying. Maybe this is why. Because I know how easily it can take people I love away. But also, because it terrifies me. It has taken people I love away. Perhaps by joking about it, death would cringe and recoil, and hopefully stay away from me.

We mourn even as we carry on and laugh at life's absurdities, but also when does sorrow end? Does it ever? Or does it only transform into a weird, odd sense of humor as a coping mechanism?

Spoiler alert on De Sequerra's essay: when they were trying to exhume his dad's bones, they realized that it hasn't fully decomposed. It was grisly and upsetting, but also, considering the author's relationship with the father and the sense of absurdity surrounding the whole incident - it was oddly comforting for me. Funny, but sad. I know that feeling. Equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

On a similar note: At my uncle's funeral, there was a moment where he couldn't fit in the tomb. They lowered the casket at a bad angle, and it wouldn't get in. A parallel incident happened when he was being brought into the morgue. (He was a pretty big guy.) I was there both times; I was crying and shaking my head in both instances. Inside, I could hear my conscience scolding me - "Ano ba yan, we're supposed to be sad, eh bakit may nakakatawa?" I don't know. I am not nearly mature enough, surprisingly, to have a clear-cut answer to this question. I still manage to keep my composure while wiping my tears anyway. Because how else to deal with this sadness, other than trying to find the hilarity, the absurdity in it all?

The minutiae of death are messy. But of life - of life after someone's death - even messier. I am managing just fine, I think. But I allow myself to cry every now and then, alone and in silence, because I feel like it's my way of honoring my loved ones. And also, it's my way of reminding myself that sure, life goes on for the rest of us, but it doesn't mean we have to move on completely.

I cry to remember. And maybe it's because I really never want to forget.

________________________________________________________________

Lighthousekeeping

I looked back at you. These moments that are talisman and treasure. Cumulative deposits – our fossil record – and the beginnings of what happens next. They are the beginning of a story, and the story we will always tell.

I passed the bar!

(Well, technically, I still have to take the oath and sign the roll. But the most difficult hurdle is over!)

It has been almost a week since the results came out but I am still trying to wrap my head around the idea that I'm finally — finally — a lawyer. How did this happen? How is this even possible? Am I hallucinating? Is this all a dream? This is surreal. I passed the bar. Wow.

For the first time in more than a decade, I can finally heave a huge sigh of relief. This is it, I've finally reached the finish line. After this, no more class, no more studying. Only life awaits. To quote a Hold Steady song, this must be how a resurrection really feels.

__

June 2017: Graduate from law school ✓
November 2017: Take the bar ✓
April 2018: Pass the bar ✓

To have reached the finish line and to succeed — completely beyond my wildest dreams. I am humbled by the grace the Lord has shown me as He carried me through this victory.

The last few days have been surreal. I still can't believe how things turned out. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who sent their love. I couldn't have done this without you. Forever grateful to my parents, family, friends, loved ones, Loved One (hehe), sisses, professors, lecturers, blockmates, batchmates, reviewmates, officemates — everyone who cheered me on and believed in me.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel indeed. What a feeling. ♥

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Never Not Love You: A Review

Never Not Love You is a simple movie. It is quiet and still, letting its pauses speak louder than its lines. In its simplicity, truths are found - a lot of them almost too real, too painful to see unfold. But like a late-night motorcycle ride, coming to terms with these truths on-screen is joyful and scary all at the same time. It makes you feel terrified, but also, alive. It is not your typical Filipino romantic film but it is very much a typical Pinoy love story.

The premise boils down to the same essential question of how far we are willing to go for love. How much of yourself do you give up for the one you love, and how much of this sacrifice becomes a part of who you are?

Dreams are the driving force of this film. This is not a premise we haven’t seen before. We’ve seen it in La La Land, we’ve seen it in Sana Maulit Muli. In many ways, Never Not Love You asks the same questions. The ambiguity of a definitive answer, however, is what sets it apart.
We all know this story: a carefree man falls for a simple girl with big dreams. Joanne wants to be successful and provide for her family; Gio just wants to be happy. These two dreams are not mutually exclusive. But as we all know, they are not always within reach either, especially when the difficulties of life get in the way.

We all know this story: like most of us, they’re not chasing fame or money. They just want satisfaction in a job that gives them sustenance and stability. But with this comes a lot of sacrifice - sacrifice founded on commitment, but also sacrifice that can turn to resentment. Such is the problem that lies at this pragmatic take on a love story.

Two scenes worthy of comparison stand out out to me: one, when they were in Zambales, talking about their dreams, basking in the glow of sunlight - and in their love. This best encapsulates the giddy feeling of a first kiss, the exciting notion of seeing a glimpse of your future with someone. “I just want to be happy.” Don’t we all? It was said with so much optimism, so much carelessness, with no clue about what lies ahead. Kind of makes you remember the first time you talked to a great love about a future, a blurry image of a someday that may include each other.

And then we have that scene where they decide to “renew their vows,” i.e. have their ring finger tattoos re-inked. They were no longer the naive young adults who, on a whim, decided to live together and get matching tattoos. They have weathered years apart, pursued their dreams together and separately, evolved into people their old selves would not recognize. The look on their faces in the ending of the movie notwithstanding, this is a story of two people who made a commitment - and stuck to it. And this is where Never Not Love You strays from a typical romantic movie. Because instead of giving us a clear “Yep, it all ended well,” or “No, they went their separate ways,” - we get two people who made a choice. Is that choice out of love or out of convenience? Only life will tell. Who can say how love dictates our choices? After all, sometimes, choosing to stay is an act of love - one shaped by sacrifice and an understanding of how the years can tear away layers of affection. Besides, who is to rule out a kind of love that sighs, that looks tired, that feels weary? That belief is naive, as naive as telling someone “It’s so easy to be happy,” just after giving them a kiss. Life has thrown them shit, but they managed. Maybe, that’s enough affirmation.

Because this is a "LDR" movie, some beats are to be expected. Some parts of the narrative felt like they needed to be there just to establish the difficulties of being in such a relationship. The arguments felt real - but also, at times, repetitive. In some parts, I felt that the progression of their characters never fully came to fruition. Which is a shame, because I think the ending scene itself could have been more compelling had the lead up to it been less passive.

Nevertheless, the risks taken were reminders of what this movie was going for: not simply kilig, but realism. The truth that love is never constant. It can make you jaded. But just because it's tired doesn't mean it's gone.

So is this a movie about love, or is it about ambition? Never Not Love You tries to find a middle ground for both. Its narrative is built on trying to find a resolution, but never really getting one. As with most Jadaone projects, the characters try to find answers in the places where the story takes them. Whereas in La La Land, Los Angeles serves as the fantastic backdrop to the struggle between the two, here, the gloomy, overcast skies of London highlight the gloom of being away from what is comforting and familiar. Even the neon-lit streets of Makati and fluorescent glow of 7-11 visually underscores how fleeting some pleasures can be, and how joy is not always found in what is temporary.

My favorite scene highlights what I love best about the movie and the questions it dared to ask: after a long day at work, Joanne receives a video call from Gio, who is walking by the Thames River. He asks a Pinay street performer to sing Sugarfree’s “Prom” - their song - for Joanne. This isn’t the first time we hear the song in the movie, but this time, we hear it differently than the first. The characters are no longer nestled comfortably into each other’s arms, no longer racing through the road with only their helmets and each other. They are separated by time zones, in cities that hold no assurances but bustles with promise. And yet, they somehow find a way to walk to and from work together, hypothetically holding hands, engrossed in the same song. We’ve seen this before, we’ve been in this before: missing someone so badly and trying so hard to close that distance. It hit the chord right by bringing on the screen something realistic to all of us: the struggle of aspiring for dreams and the sacrifice of our loved ones to help get us there.

It’s charming how the choice of song, “Prom” is one that evokes memories of high school. Of youth. Of hopeful longing. Far from being a mere cliched rom-com vehicle, Never Not Love You is a film that explores the reality of navigating the consequences of our decisions, as young people and eventually as adults, be it out of love or out of ambition. “Matapos man ang sayaw / pangakong ‘di ka bibitaw,” so goes the closing lines of the song. This might be a bit too on the nose, but it sends the message: love is a choice. It fades, it changes. But who is to say that a weathered love is any less real?

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Signs of life

Hello. So I'm still alive. A lot has happened since the last time I wrote, although I'm not sure if all that has passed is really worth recapping. What's there to tell you anyway? Not much. Basically, the gist of the last year or so was this: I was holed up in a room and studying.

Now I'm out of that room, but inside another room, and working.

Life is funny sometimes. If you asked me four years ago, "Is this where you imagined yourself to be?" the answer is both yes and no. Yes, because of course I was expecting to be employed by this time, after having taken a break post-exam. But also, no, I had no idea I'd be doing this, working for a practice I genuinely enjoy. Who knew there's a place for me in this world after all?

I am traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling

"All I really, really, want is our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too."

It took me almost a decade since I first heard this song before I finally understood the love you were singing about. And now that I have, it feels like there is nothing in the world I cannot overcome. A love that seeks to keep on giving is a love that will never run out. Love from family, from friends, from a person who makes you feel safe — when you have that in your life, what is there to fear?

This month is about overcoming a lot of things. And accepting that the journey that got me here is a reward in itself. Whatever happens, there is light waiting for me on the other side.

Happy birthday, Joni Mitchell — songwriter, artist, lover, Scorpio.

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Now Playing: Something from three different decades

Don't get me wrong, I love John Frusciante just as much as every other fan, and I truly think that it was his style and amazing ability that shaped the Chili Peppers sound that we know of today. (Although much respect is to be given to Hillel Slovak, let's admit that most of the RHCP songs we know are from both Frusciante eras.) Any time I watch an RHCP concert with John, it's like witnessing an apparition. (My favorite is their Live at Slane Castle.) To say that his skills are god-like would be a complete understatement. Listen to the opening riffs of "Snow (Hey Oh)" or the guitar solo at the end of "Dani California" in any of their live performances — a good introduction to their style for anyone who hasn't heard of them — if you're not convinced.

But. I have a soft spot for Dave Navarro's short tenure with the band. I don't know if it's because I generally like underdogs — in this case, the guy people never root for, the guy people hate on and mention right away when asked "Who was the worst RHCP guitarist??" on random online forums, the guy the band members themselves want to forget about — or, I just don't know enough about these things and the musicality of it all to make a proper judgment. But for whatever reason, I just really dig the whole dark, full-on rock aesthetic the Chili Peppers took on during his stay.

Truth is, I didn't really listen to songs from OHM except for "Aeroplane" until a few months ago when my boyfriend upgraded my Spotify to Premium (one of his grad gifts, haha), and I decided to explore their entire discography for study music. But even before this, I didn't think Dave Navarro was a bad fit. In fact, another favorite RHCP live performance of mine is "Blood Sugar Sex Magik" from Woodstock 1994, with Dave at the helm. I know it's a Frusciante-penned song, but damn it, Dave just effin' slayed that song. This is one of those rare instances where, yes, Dave >>> John. The song just became so much more edgy and insane. The riffs went from kinda funky to hardcore, and ugh I just love it so much. (Can you tell??)

Anyway, I got around to giving the Dave Navarro-era some love because I needed new songs to listen to. Needless to say, I loved it so much more than I expected. Please don't throw stones at me and say, "What, you like RHCP when they're less funky?? Not a true fan!" I don't care. I loved it. It was definitely a different flavor than what we — and apparently the band — were used to, but I think it shouldn't be swept under the rug as a forgettable album. It's definitely up there with the good ones, and deserve some more recognition, at least for me. The record was rough and hard and harsh — in a good, incredibly satisfying way. It's something right up my alley, honestly. If you think about it, it's amazing how much their sound changes and evolves with each new guitarist, and especially with One Hot Minute, it really seems like a very Dave record. It's so distinct. I wish the guys remained friendly with each other, if only so they could work on even just one new track, or at least perform some songs from the OHM era. But, alas, I'll content myself with Spotify and YouTube for my RHCP+Dave fix. Thank you Internet.

(P.S. I'll talk about my love for Flea and Chad Smith some other time.)

You Gotta Go There To Come Back, Stereophonics (2003)

Okay so it's no secret that even after many, many years since high school, "Dakota" is still my jam. Name whatever device I have, that song is there. It's been with me on my iPod classic crying over useless high school drama, and it's still with me here as I struggle my way through review. But I wish I could say the same for the other Stereophonics albums. Because apparently they're all freakin' great.

For a long time, I thought my favorite Stereophonics songs were all on Language.Sex.Violence.Other. But turns out, many of them were in either You Gotta Go There To Come Back and Push The Pin. This ignorance is a result of high school senior / college freshman me just downloading songs off Limewire, so I knew squat about where these tracks came from. But now that I know better (LOL) I decided to revisit these old songs I used to just hear on 00's teen shows. And to no one's surprise, these albums are fantastic.

Honesty time: in my teens, I had a few bands that I "fake-liked," — i.e. I only listened to their songs and claimed to like them because I thought they seemed cool. (Shame, 15-year-old, Karla. Or not, because you know, you were just a teenager and didn't know better.) This included Aqualung (I still can't remember any other song aside from "Brighter Than Sunshine"), The Killers, and Foster The People. I've long accepted the fact that I will never like them the way other people do, and it's okay to let them go.

But the Stereophonics, man, there was no pretending there. The few singles that did speak to me then still speak to me now. And the albums from where they came had the same effect. I'm so, so glad I decided to revisit their discography. This 2003 album in particular is so good in its longing and yearning. It's like chasing feelings you can never experience again; like holding on to ghosts that will never haunt you again. Man, it's such a shame that Stereophonics never really took off outside Europe, because this means there's a scarcity of performances and interviews to devour online. This also means there's a very, very slim chance of me seeing them live. (Although with the amount of obscure artists visiting the Philippines, I'm still keeping my fingers crossed.) This record — and the other two albums I mentioned — aged really well. For anyone who wants to dip their toes into some sad (in a good way) Welsh rock, definitely check these ones out.

Concrete and Gold, Foo Fighters (2017)

Let's get this one out of the way: the only other Foo Fighters album I've loved from start to finish was The Colour and The Shape. I have so much respect for Dave Grohl as a vocalist, drummer, default torch-bearer of modern-day Rock Music. (Also for Taylor Hawkins, because drummers are the best.) But the truth is, none of their albums really stand out to me. I know their singles, sure (I still dream of a future moment in my life where "Everlong" will be played in the background, LOL.) Their albums are just okay. Which isn't to say they aren't good — because they are. They're consistently good. It's just that, in the last decade or so, most of their albums have been very, uhm, vanilla. Delicious, but safe. And again, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Who doesn't like vanilla? I bet if you ask ice cream companies, that is their most successful flavor. And really, is there any other more lasting, successful, and genre-defining rock band right now than the Foo Fighters? As far as longevity goes, vanilla isn't a bad path to take.

To quote this line from an FF article I read: "That the Foos’ nearly quarter-century together has produced little in the way of artistic development is exactly the point. Grohl and his pals never set out to write the gospel on modern rock—they only sought to preach it, hammering it into our heads by way of biting hooks and anthemic melodies."

That being said, I think Concrete and Gold is very much an invigorating, exhilarating ride. A typical Foo Fighters album is an above-average one, even without them trying. But this one felt like they really did go out of their way to epistolize something new. The album has its political and critical undertones — but never on the verge of sanctimonious. It's the right kind of encouraging people to the streets — maybe not necessarily to protest (although it can definitely be seen as that), but maybe to free themselves from the shackles of our burdened times. It laments, but also, appeases.

I particularly loved the single "Run." If you close your eyes you can almost imagine yourself in the middle of an arena pumping your fist up in the air with this battle cry. "In another perfect life / we run," Dave sings. And for the next forty-eight minutes, it does feel like nothing can go wrong. You can run. It's anything but a safe, secure sentiment — and it's definitely a freeing one. Although you never really went away, welcome back, Foos.

rude awakenings

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

— Edmund Burke

People are dying on the streets. Rights are being trampled on. Due process is being disregarded. Policemen are crying over their tarnished media image; mothers are crying over their murdered innocent sons. Alleged thieves are being killed without a day in court; actual plunderers are still having the time of their lives with nary a thought to the blood on their hands.

How can people still be so blind? Worse: how can people still be so stupid?

Wake up — they are fucking this country over.

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The capricious seaming of memory

"Memory, and time, both immaterial, are rivers with no banks, and constantly merging. Both escape our will, though we depend on them. Measured, but measured by whom or by what? The one is inside, the other, outside, or so it seems, but is that true? Time seems also buried deep in us, but where? Memory is right here, in the head, but it can exit, abandon the head, leave it behind, disappear. Memory, a sanctuary of infinite patience.

Is memory produced by us, or is it us? Our identity is very likely whatever our memory decides to retain. But let’s not presume that memory is a storage room. It’s not a tool for being able to think, it’s thinking, before thinking. It also makes an (apparently) simple thing like crossing the room, possible. It’s impossible to separate it from what it remembers."

- Etel Adnan (Lebanese-American poet, essayist, philosopher, and visual artist), on the role of memory in the continuity of our personal identity

The other day I had an odd, but strangely familiar dream. I was walking down Freshie Walk, rushing to (or from) class, when I bumped into you. You were alone, and your hair was unkempt. It took me a while to recognize you, because you no longer wore your hair like that - at least outside this dream, which took me a few seconds to realize I was in. I was startled to see you coming up close, and I hesitated if I should greet you.

Then you walked up to me and said, "What are we doing here?"

"Here? You mean, in school?"

"No, I mean, here,"

And I realized in an instant that you meant this realm, this space in time where we aren't together, where our lives haven't yet found their way back to each other. The year was 2008, and it was almost Christmas - I could tell by the "Free Toki" Accenture-sponsored jeep I alighted, and the karaoke-sounding medley of yuletide songs the manong driver was playing.

"What are we doing here?" I ask again.

"Maybe this is where we wish we met,"

"But it would have changed everything."

Then, I no longer recall what happened after. After waking up, it took me a few minutes to process the dream, because it wasn't as vivid or as long as the other ones I do remember. (Truth is, I rarely have dreams, and when I do, they're often super weird. Like, Rick and Morty weird.)

Remembering dreams is such a funny thing. Especially ones that feel so real. It's literally your mind playing tricks on you. I swear, that moment of me rushing through Freshie Walk, only to slow down because I thought I recognized someone approaching me - I know it happened. I felt like it did. But somehow, my brain rewired that memory of having you in it instead, and now I kinda wish it was how it really turned out. Perhaps things would have been way different, and maybe different doesn't necessarily mean worse.

Sometimes I wish a lot of things that happened in college turned out differently. Not because I regret them, but because I think they could have been much better. And it would be nice to see an alternate timeline, where I could be another version of myself that's not exactly a stranger, but someone not as lost, or loud, or worried. I could have taken more risks, I could have been more ambitious. I would have written about you, and not have been unafraid of so many things. We could have had a lot of fun - a kind of happy that fit that time of our lives. Whereas now, we reward ourselves after work (you) and 200-pages-or-so (me) with a fancy meal, back then a banana shake would have been enough. You know, small things we never got to share because we didn't have the chance then.

This is how my mind plays with me these days. My mind is often tired, and it is running on autopilot. But it still - at least - dares to dream. Literally. It gives me things to feel happy about, thoughts to keep me company. It is not content with reading academic words on pages; it still writes its own stories every now and then.

So now, a part of me wishes to go back in time just to see how nice it would have been to share those with you. The present is great, and the future something to look forward to. But there is a bittersweet kind of longing for this past we never shared, a yearning accompanied by this curiosity, both piqued and left unsatisfied by my subconscious playing tricks on me. This is how this mind works: it remembers you in places you were never in. It is aware of its deception, but also, innocuous with its intentions. Well-meaning, even. It is very much grounded with what is real, but also, enjoys in playing with what isn't. "My memories form a forest with unstable boundaries," Adnan says. Memory sews together events that hadn’t previously met. It reshuffles the past and makes us aware that it is doing so. Sometimes, it leads to unexpected results - like seeing you in a faux memory and you knowing where we were - but always, always interesting ones.

And it is so accurate. Ever since I saw this film on IMAX, I felt like a warrior was ready to rip herself out of my chest. I was so pumped, so amazed, so awed. It was the story of one woman - a strong, ideal, almost-perfect goddess - and yet, in so many ways, it was also incredibly human.

Unfortunately, this isn't going to be a proper review of the movie. (Although it's definitely a 12/10 for me.) But I'd like to take the time to write about something that is so incredibly rare for me these days: to find something so inspiring. Seeing Wonder Woman embrace this whole idea of being brave amidst it all for the common good - it's uplifting. And truth is, I really needed that.

And these days, don't we all?

__

(Yeah, sometimes, I spend my short breaks reading superhero comics. When the weight of it all becomes too heavy to bear, I like jumping into a world where the lines between good and bad are clearly drawn. Where we know who the good guys and the bad guys are. I guess it's my way of coping with all this grief and sadness and anger; some sort of coping mechanism.)

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At last

This is the result of nine years in UP: finally that Sablay on my left shoulder with the purple tassel on it. It still feels surreal. This is what I've been working on for most of my adult life: getting good grades in high school so I can enter a good university, working my ass off in college to land a spot in law school, crying myself to sleep just to get that juris doctor degree. And now here we are! Is it really the end? How the hell did I make it??? I can't believe it's been 10 years since I took the UPCAT. And wasn't it only yesterday that I wrote it a love letter, of sorts, after graduating from college?

I know I sound like a broken record, but man, UP really was my dream school. My family (especially my Tita Gina) did a great job of going all Inception on me ever since I was young. They were pretty consistent in making me believe that it was a place where dreams came true.

Was it everything I expected it to be? Yes, and no. It has its failures: it is just like the outside world. Some people are terrible, some ideas are trash, some institutions should be reformed. But at the same time, it is nothing like anything else out there. There is kindness, there is wisdom, there is love. There is comfort in knowing that when people come together with great ideas and with compassion, so much good can be done.

Wow. I guess this is really it.

Thank you, UP, for the privilege of being nurtured by you. I hope one day I can repay the taxpayers for the eight-and-a-half-years of funding for my tuition. I promise you, I'll do you proud one day. Just you wait :)

Someone finds salvation in everyone, and another only pain

So this is how it feels to lose one of your heroes. His music has been a quiet friend to me for all these years. Audioslave and Soundgarden were cornerstones of my adolescent life - and eventually, much of my young adulthood. Even his solo albums were permanent residents of playlists on any of my gadgets. I can't count how many times his songs have given me comfort, even in times when I thought I didn't really need it.

I never knew you, I never saw you live, but I feel so devastated. Ang sakit-sakit naman, Chris Cornell. Rest easy.

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Places

“We depend on our surroundings obliquely to embody the moods and ideas we respect and then to remind us of them. We look to our buildings to hold us, like a kind of psychological mould, to a helpful vision of ourselves. We arrange around us material forms which communicate to us what we need — but are at constant risk of forgetting what we need — within. We turn to wallpaper, benches, paintings and streets to staunch the disappearance of our true selves.”

– The Architecture of Happiness, Alain de Botton

Why do we feel like we belong in some places and not in others? It's interesting to me how the idea of a physical space can have so much impact on our identities - no matter that it's our first time there, or our thousandth. It's also interesting how our relationship with a place evolves: like how a place we dislike will later on become monuments of a certain part of our lives that we will eventually look back on nostalgically.

I think my favorite part of going on a trip is getting this feeling of "I belong," on the most random of places. I can honestly say that I don't see myself permanently residing abroad ever - but I'm going to lie if I say that there aren't parts of other countries where I can imagine myself being a part of its picture. There are places that resonated with certain parts of me, echoes that only the inner, most secret versions of myself could hear. And it was oddly comforting event though physically - all senses considered - they are alien.

Consider this carousel: before my trip, I only saw it once, on a video montage featuring a particular love team. But my feelings for said pairing notwithstanding - I instantly felt so much joy and excitement. Like I've never seen a carousel before - even though I have, a hundred times. I don't even like riding carousels. Something about it just spoke to me - maybe the colors? The innocence of children's laughter? The chilly, snuggle-appropriate weather? Whatever it was, it spoke to a part of me that longed for carefree, happy Saturday afternoons.

What does that say about me? A lot, but also, maybe, not much.

"Place makes memories cohere in complex ways," writes architectural historian Dolores Hayden. And I think that's true. How else can we have a memory of something if it doesn't have a setting? A backdrop?

I don't have a steady grasp of my "true self" lately. I'm not sure how much of my likes and dislikes right now are permanently part of "Karla, the person." But I'd like to think that this year is going to be all about reconciling these impulses to the identity. I'm in for a long period of introspection inside my room - aside from all the studying, of course. Personalities change, just as much as surroundings do. But the self can change too even when the place does not. Here's to hoping I like whatever version of me that comes out from this cocoon of a year.

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Faculty Center: One last look

I went to UP yesterday to fix my clearance; and on my way to the OUR I just had to pass by this place again. It's been more than a year since the fire, and it still stings. I was there that night. My friends and I went to accompany another friend, a professor at the History department who thought he could still salvage his things.

As I stood in the same spot I did a year ago, I was again reminded of everything that was lost in the flames - records, undergrad theses, thousands of books, costumes, scripts, poems, novels, works of art, memories. Stories. Corners and corridors that witnessed our every failure and joy. Sometimes, I still wonder, how can its end be so cruel? To have left absolutely nothing behind but ashes?

I stood in front of it yesterday with a heavy heart - heavier than my usual sentiments of missing CAL as I crawled my way through law school. Turns out, today the building is being demolished. FC was home, perhaps even more so than Malcolm ever was. And to lose it so permanently just as my stay in UP was ending - it felt like salt on my battle wounds.

But if there's anything I learned as a student of this college, it's that there is beauty to be found in starting over. Stories end, time passes. Life comes and goes, often taking away parts of us we can never get back. The most we can hope for is that this sadness will eventually carry us through. To new narratives, new perspectives, new meanings. For now, we grieve. Tomorrow - as with all tomorrows - we will pick up our pens and write again.

Signs of Life: Back from the US

I came back from the US about a week ago but have just recently re-adjusted my body to the nights and days on this part of the world. I was gone for twenty-one days, on a time zone sixteen hours away. And I have nothing to complain about - I had a fantastic time, I visited places I've only dreamt of seeing and I wish I could write about all of it.

But as I'll have you all know, I'm on a tight schedule. The trip was meant to be my graduation gift, after finally finishing my law studies (in nine semesters - hahaha). I took it early this year for a reason, and that is, so I can go back and focus on my review for the bar. So while I spent the last three weeks happily gallivanting around San Francisco and Los Angeles (and a small part of San Jose), it also meant I had to work on my calendar so that I am not behind on my preferred study schedule.

I know, I know, isn't it too early, blah blah blah. But four-and-a-half years in law school have taught me what I needed to know about myself, and that is, I'm only good at procrastinating when I'm writing. Not so much on my studying. So if I can get a head start on things as soon as I can, that will be terrific.

As such, I won't be having the luxury of writing about the entire trip as lengthily as I want to - at least for the moment. I just wanted to give you guys (the four or five of you who might still be reading this thing, LOL) a quick update on what's been going on in my life. And at least give this blog some signs of life.

Maybe I'll find the time to write during my study breaks; maybe not. But at least, consider this my notice to the world. I'm back, but also, not really. :))

1929 Anaïs Nin on 2018 Karla

— From "The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume Four, 1927 – 1931," from the diary entry dated 27 February 1929.

It's almost that time of year: 2018 is coming to an end, and everyone is making time for some introspection.

When your birthday is at the tail end of October, it feels redundant to have two big reflections about the year just two months apart. The things I realized on my birthday are still... pretty much the same things I'm reflecting on as the year comes to a close.

I turned twenty-seven almost eight weeks ago. I have also become many things in the last few months (lawyer, aunt, colleague, among others). But — and I say this with no bitterness, only a quiet sort of acceptance — I am also, still, very much, not a lot.

To be quite honest, I am still having trouble with that paragraph, Anaïs. "No book, no stage career, a lot of unsatisfied desires, and a realization that I am half of what I hope to be."

But I'm trying. I'm trying really hard.

It's terrifying to acknowledge this status quo, because I'm no failure - and to say that I am would only make me sound ungrateful. I only prayed for one thing this year, and I was given so much more. I had goals: I reached them. And I am very, very thankful.

With age comes the weight of many kinds of sadnesses that have no name. It's the kind of sadness that comes from little things that, as a much younger person, you so easily managed to brush off. Like realizing you are drifting apart from some of your friends, or discovering that you are no longer as agile as you used to be, or finding out that you may never get to see the world as much as you want. Meeting people at an inopportune time. Losing interest in things that used to excite you. Making mistakes at work. Coming to terms with a disorder. Accepting your parents' aging. Realizing your nation is in shambles. Dealing with someone's death. These are not things that are supposed to stop you from reaching more goals, from achieving more things. But ostensibly, these are considerations that now weigh heavily on your mind when you start thinking about what lies ahead, when you wonder about taking big risks.

With age comes the weight of fear.

Have you ever changed your mind about anything that used to excite you? I had a childhood dream of going skydiving. I used to tell myself, "That's on top of my bucket list." But as the years go by, it becomes less and less enticing. It's just utterly terrifying now. What if I die? Who takes care of my family? What about master's? Who gets to read the excerpts of my book? And even if at the back of my head, I know that it's something I can do, I'm no longer sure if it's something I should.

The world says, don't let fear stop you. In theory, I know it should not. But when you've started nestling comfortably into a status quo that is just okay, you develop this instinct to not change it. "I have enough sadnesses to keep me company and anchor me into this safety," I tell myself.

See, this particular brand of fear is not a badge I like to wear.

But like I said a few months back, I like putting on masks of courage. There is comfort in my pretense. So every once in a while, I allow myself to admit my fears. Because when I do, I am forced to talk myself out of it. (Or more accurately, I find old books and passages and authors who will talk me out of it. Tonight, I scoured my bookshelf and it's Miss Nin.) Even if it means writing another "reflection paper" just eight weeks after my birthday "essay." Sometimes, it comes as a time when I should be doing something else, like preparing my daily service report.

Well, consider this today's service report: I am not a lot of things yet. And that terrifies me, because what if I never become everything I ever hoped? But I acknowledge that I am all the things that happened to me this year - and more. For now, that should be enough. Every day, I keep trying to be a better, kinder person to myself. I am grateful for what the universe was generous enough to give me. And whatever lies ahead, I should be ready. I put on this mask, and I try to be convincing, even and most especially to myself. I owe it to all twenty-seven years in me to really try.

Both "terribly, profoundly happy" and "terribly, profoundly unhappy." But I will be okay. I'm okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay.

(R)evolutions

I say to myself as I brush my hair for the seventh time last Friday. I wear my hair like my crown: in glory. That is to say, I feel like all the pain in the world is surmountable as long as my shiny black hair cascades down past my shoulders before curling ever so slightly by the end. It's therapeutic, in many ways, when I fidget over my hair. It makes me feel like I am in control over something I do not find attractive naturally. (You see, I have waves, and I hate them. So I straighten them out because it makes me feel better. Control is calming.) How shallow, people say, to not allow yourself to embrace your flaws. In my head, I retort back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and live out versions of yourself you like better.

Quiet and kind. Quiet and kind.

I have to remind myself to remain as such, even when the world yells out and becomes otherwise.

Another revolution2 around the sun has passed for me. So much of my reflections in the last year, I've never written down. I never even bothered. I think, for the most part, it's because I was too busy living in the moment, enjoying newfound freedom (or the lack thereof, lol, sad reaccs onli), celebrating the biggest triumph of my life thus far.

But also, I think it's because I'm afraid that writing them down somehow diminishes their value. Odd, isn't it? Sometimes, keeping notes for posterity robs them the illusion of being — feeling — real. Because the words can never really fully encapsulate certain moments. And every attempt at restructuring them with sentences is always going to be futile. So I let them stay in my head, where they are pure, and untouched, and vivid, and colorful, and untainted by my incapacity to recreate them. Where I can relive them resoundingly in my head, as I nestle comfortably into muted smiles.

The truth is the revolution in me is loud.

Certain parts of me feel awakened, while other parts feel indifferent. These parts I cannot always reconcile. How dramatic, you say. But it merits a loud, heavy sigh — or a laugh, disguising a cry — every time I realize some clocks are ticking quicker than they used to: biological, emotional, spiritual.

The revolution in me is loud, but every day I try to find reasons to keep it down. Why? Because I actually like the pretense. I like putting on a brave face. I don't mind never letting my guard down. I don't like others fussing over me. I wear my brave face like I wear my hair: in glory. How tiring, people say, to always have to convince others that you are fine. On this space, I say back: How sad, to never let yourself pretend and embrace a braver, softer version of you, one that you actually like better.

Quiet and kind. I have to remind myself to be quiet and kind, always, in all ways. I have the love of people I love, and the grace to accept the present, even if it means embracing the uncertainties of the future. What is there to not be thankful for? What is there to be so noisy about? Why bother myself with worries, when I can instead live in the moment — not verbalizing every thought, not overthinking every concern, not deprecating every second of pure joy?

The revolution2 is both quiet and loud.

But I hope the revolution1 in me will always be kind. It will be compassionate, and it will always surrender to my belief in serendipity, in goodness finding its way back to me at the right time. Because this is what I know best. Because this is the only way I know how. I will manage, and it will be alright,3 and it will be all right.4

__1 - a sudden radical or complete change.2 - the movement of an object in a circular or elliptical course around an axis.3 - fine.4 - according to fact or truth.

Seven excerpts, before twenty-seven

They say birthdays are a time for introspection. Well, I found my old college notebook from one of my poetry classes early this morning, and it did make me think about some of my favorite poems.

One
From "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terr-
ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to
choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you
don't even have a name for.

Two
From "Small Wire" by Anne Sexton

As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.

Three
From "Rain" by Danton Remoto

But you are here,
in the country of my mind,
wiping away the maps
of mist
on the window pane,
lying beside me,
as the pulse of the pillows and sheets—
even the very throb of rain—
begins to quicken.

Four
From "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Five
From "Before Bed" by Zora Howard

I is a still wet concrete
and here comes you,
a brazen unkempt boy,
carving your gang signs all up alongside me with an unassuming stick.
Where is your home training?
Why do you make the city of me so unbecoming?
Your language is hardening in this landscape of mine.
Everyone will pass here
and what will they find?
That I am your block,
I am your boulevard,
your bayou,
And baby,
I don’t mind,
I don’t mind,
I don’t mind.

Six
From "Send Me To The Moon" by Conchitina Cruz

Lay down your arms where I can
stay in them and send me to the moon, forget the freaks
we ran away from one afternoon by the library, the guard whistling in the hall,
the howl and swagger and the fall—
Haven’t we all made that jump? Haven’t we all heard
the plunk, the mere grunt of you,
the mere spunk of you, reeking of musk
while teaching me physics, crawling down the road piss drunk
at 3 am, plastered and master
to none, pushing my head down in cars all over town—
Don’t we all stoop and deliver?
And so, what now, hopping from bed to bed, all red with rage,
the age of the wine on the label tossed
in the wastebasket, the taste
of it all, the last of it all, the pale madness of this song,
my thong tugged at again
by your wandering fingers, still smelling of
another sweet wonder—Don’t we all
have another? Where are my fangs?
Where are my pangs of guilt for my sins, where the wince
in the eternal threat of end, how mend the night’s
idiosyncrasy, the spittoon in the fantasy
of ordinary life, your wife,
my darling nonbeliever, my unwarranted claim.

Seven"It is not impossible to survive—" by Lauryn K. Alleyne

You have mastered solitude, struggled to unpack
the thick realities of time and matter. Love has flattened
you. Measured, you have faced your least loveliness.

How fragile God’s graffiti, the text of us scrawled
wild, twisted into this renegade, complex sentence
of living! How the making betrays and becomes us!

Look at the tree revise its body daily, spectacularly
rendered through the small violence of loss. If nothing
else, learn this: You are not broken, but rearranged.

Talk throughs and celestial (un)certainties

The thing about being in school for so long is that you stop feeling like having a life outside the four corners of most rooms - a classroom, the library, your condo unit - feels like a transgression. Any time spent with friends or family without books or cases, you start feeling guilty. Days are counted by the number of hours you have to either earn your breaks or make up for it. You never get to fully engage your self in certain social situations, because at the back of your head you're always worrying about crawling back to your readings.

Now that law school and bar review is over (for good, HELL YEAH), I'm slowly easing my way into having a social life. I get to have dinner with friends and have meaningful conversations that I can fully immerse myself in because things are - well, not easier, per se, but - less stifling.

Which is an opportune time, I guess, especially now that I feel like I'm going through an internal crisis of sorts. I'm navigating through grief, I'm coming to terms with certain realities about being an adult, I'm feeling angry and frustrated about our nation's institutions falling apart - and I can't do that alone. Or, maybe I can. But I appreciate the company of people going through the same things, riding out the same waves.

Of knowing that you have allies, in your principles and in your passions.

Listening is underrated. There is comfort in conversation, folks. It liberates.

___

Somewhere in the digital sea of old files in my hard drive is an old screenplay I wrote for class. I never got to finish it - never even got it to take off to any kind of conflict - but I recall it was about fortunes being told, and fates being decided by the stars.

A girl opens her palm to a mysterious lady under a tree. It was mid-afternoon when she stepped out of work for a smoke. The lady called to her and asked her if life consumed her the way the puffs of smoke did. Out of both curiosity and boredom, she approached her and sought out answers for questions she didn't dare ask. But my script ended there because I had no knowledge of palm reading, and did not have insights on what it meant to predict futures.

Venus is about to enter retrogade, so goes much of Twitter today. I try not to take these things seriously, but sometimes there is comfort in hanging on to so-called certainties found in celestial bodies.

Scorpio sun, Libra rising, Moon in Gemini, Venus in Virgo, reads my birth chart. What does it mean? I sift through readings, I scroll through interpretations. I press like when I recognize myself, which is just about thirty percent of the time. I know none of these matter in the real world, and almost all of it is never really true. But I still find myself Googling through meanings every now and then, hoping to make sense of feelings that shouldn't be there but just are.

Is this part of the quarter-life, suddenly seeking new lenses through which to view life?

One of my best friends has recently thrown all caution in the wind and professed faith in horoscopes. I message her about these fears of mine every now and then, and she tells me how "Scorpio" or how "Libra" I am, or reminds me that this is just how it is for "Moons in Gemini." I sometimes don't know what she means, but I find myself being okay with it. Normally, I would scoff at such frivolities, but these days, I feel like exchanges like this are more comforting than "real talks" where practicalities are clearly defined.

How naive, Karla. Also, how delusional. You think putting your head above the clouds makes sense?

No, but, somehow it makes things more easily digestible.

And I feel like this is probably how it is for a lot of people. There's a reason why millennials cling to astrology so badly these days, out of irony, but maybe also out of desperation. These horoscopes, and personality tests, and astral charts - all coping mechanisms, and to a certain extent, they work. If it gets one going and allows you to still wake up, find the courage to carry on, and do some good in the world, then why not.

Outside, people are starving, dying. There is turmoil, and chaos, and fear. There is this nagging feeling of "Why can't I do anything about it?" All that we've known, and all that we've been taught - they all feel useless. The world is becoming more and more cruel, slowly and surely gnawing at whatever is left of our idealism.

The future is scary and overwhelming, the present, even more so. None of us have the answers, but all of us have the same questions. I guess it's in these times where we're allowed to find something to hold onto these days, no matter how capricious.

Is this being a Scorpio, or is this just being a 26-year-old?

___

Facebook's "On This Day" reminded me that six years ago, I was eagerly anticipating the release of Red. Yep, that Taylor Swift album.

October 2012 feels like a lifetime ago. I am no longer in that same head space, no longer heartbroken and tired. I no longer have the same feelings of love-and-hate towards Taylor Swift (these days, it's more of just ambivalence). But it is still my favorite album of hers, for many reasons, the first of them being "State of Grace."

I am turning 27 soon. In twenty-one days to be exact. I am both excited and terrified, because 26 was so good to me. It was incredible and exhilarating and generous. But 27 is a little more uncertain: no more goal posts, no more clearly defined finish lines. Only an open race that leads to... what exactly? I have no idea.

"This is a state of grace / this is a worthwhile fight," I remember singing this song while cramming for Persons as a first year student. It carried me through that exam. Will it carry me through this month, nay, this year?

Let's check in with "On This Day" next year to find out.

__

A very good friend has been telling me to keep writing. I don't have anything to write about, I say. And worse, I don't have the time.

Well, here: fragments of thoughts at 5:21 in the afternoon, on a Friday. It's not much, but it's still something. Maybe one day I'll get back to that screenplay. But until then, this will have to do.

________________________________________________________________

beer cold and a mental hold

The other day, I was raising my beer in honor of Chris Cornell again. It was a night out with the partners and my fellow associates, and Audioslave came on. I started mouthing the words to "Be Yourself" - as one should - when the partner noticed me and gave me high-five. Two seconds later we were both air-drumming and banging our heads to the song, while simultaneously mourning Cornell's death all over again.

Some griefs we never really get over, huh.

And then over the weekend, I started listening to Mac Miller. Coming clean here: I'm not a big fan of hip-hop, even though I've tried so many times to really get into it. It's just a matter of preference, I guess. But I do appreciate a good track every now and then. So I'm always pleasantly surprised when I come across a song, and an album even, that truly captures my attention. The Divine Feminine is what got me the last two days. Another confession: I'm a casual Ariana fan. "So Into You" is my perpetual perk-me-up/gusto-ko-lumandi jam. I cried after the Manchester bombing. I tried following Big Sean because of her ("Best Mistake" is fire, okay.) I fangirl over her and Pete Davidson, and watched all his SNL videos because of their crazy, whirlwind engagement. Oddly though, I never really got into Mac Miller even though I kind of liked "Favorite Part."

Which is something I now regret, because I realize now how much of an artist he is. I guess what I appreciated about him as I waded through his tracks on Spotify is that his songs aren't just words. He experimented with instruments, he played with different genres, mixing together jazz and soul and hip-hop. He spoke simply, but surely. He was no singer, but he lets his heart warble through the pain to seek bliss, albeit temporary. And, I guess, what made me keep listening was this: even though he had his demons, it was evident that he fervently believed in love. I listened to The Divine Feminine and heard a man who just wanted to make a woman happy. Maybe, he thought, by pleasing you, I can please myself. And what greater satisfaction is there than by giving, and seeing someone receive you, fully, unconditionally?

How sad that the demons in his head had to take him away. I respect Ari's decision for walking away - and I will always root for any woman who has to leave behind someone they love dearly if the relationship is taking a toll on their physical, emotional, and mental well-being. But, I also can't help but feel sad that he couldn't handle it on his own. Everyone was rooting for him. He deserved more time.

Him and Chris, really.

And everyone else. We all deserve more time.

How lucky we are to have their music to keep us going, when the artists themselves failed at it. I hope we all manage to wade on through, to swim it out, to keep walking, until one day, without us realizing it, we bump into a sense of purpose. A state of mind that will truly, fervently have us believe that life is meaningful. Or not even that - just the general assurance that hey, life isn't bad. Maybe that should be enough.

__

Off to a hearing. Do I know what I'm doing? Yes. Do I really know what I'm doing? No. Did I just spend half an hour preparing a playlist composed of Cornell and Miller songs instead of replying to an e-mail, just to get me going through this day - nay, this week? Maybe. Do I need more beer in my life? Absolutely. We do what we have to do to keep going, right?

________________________________________________________________

The minutiae of death - and life - are messy

Forty days ago, my uncle passed away. He was forty-four years old. He had a heart attack in his home - we tried to bring him to the hospital but he was declared dead on arrival. I saw and oversaw everything.

I had three long cries: one, when they were wheeling his body into the morgue; two, during his funeral. And one random morning to work, at the back of my papa's car, both of us bawling our eyes out in silence.

I should already be used to this, I think. And yet, I'm not.

I have conflicted feelings about death. In the last fourteen years, six family members have died. Four grandmothers, one aunt, one uncle. All of them, incredibly close to me. I grew up in a small town, and with very few relatives. The attachment I had with each of them ran deep, because I was an only child whose first pals were the grown-ups around me. They were friends to me. The funny thing is, when I close my eyes and try to remember them, I don't recall big gestures or grand occasions. I remember the way they held my hand; the way they coughed; the way they would stroke my hair; the way "Amen" rolls of their tongue when they pray. I remember the little things; and it's the little things that set me off, every damn time. One would think I have gone through the stages of grief enough times to master it already - on the contrary, no. I am still going through it, and probably will never reach the end.

It never ends, this grief.

Last Friday, I came across an old Esquire article in our office lobby. "Exhumation" by Vanni De Sequerra. In sum, it's an essay about the author's experience exhuming the bones of his deceased father to have them cremated and transferred to a columbarium.

It's grotesque, and sad, and fascinating in a way that only a person dealing with prolonged grief can understand. I've seen dead loved ones - I've seen *bones* of dead loved ones - but not this. Although, I fear that one day I may have to. It's twisted, how I feel about certain things like death and sorrow. On the one hand, I now feel like I am more prepared than any one I know. (Claiming a body from the morgue? Check. Paying for the hospital bills and getting the death certificate? Easy. Choosing a casket? Fine. Securing a burial certificate? Done. I know all the intricacies surrounding death by now. Guess I'm an expert.) On the other, I know that all the grieving I've gone through places me in an even more vulnerable position when someone dies again. I'll be carrying an even heavier burden, a sadness whose weight will quadruple in an instant, and that's terrifying.

This is what I haven't been telling people about me, and probably what I haven't been admitting to myself either. I am sad. I am a less-happier version of myself for every tragedy, and it will never be the same. Am I able to carry on and live life normally despite their absence? Yes. Have I accepted the fact that losing loved ones is part of life? Yes. Have I become closer to God because of this sorrow? Yes. Am I thankful for the gift of life? Yes. But am I still sad? YES. The truth is, no matter how many "Life goes on," and "Things happen for a reason," quotes I read, I am - and will probably always be - perpetually burdened by the weight of all these deaths.

And it is this concept of continuous, uninterrupted blues that I have to learn how to deal with.

How do I go about this? If my mom reads this, she'll call me up and say "Hindi ka kasi nagdadasal." ("You haven't been praying enough.") But I have prayed this sadness away for years, and I think I've turned my mind inside and out enough times to come to the conclusion that maybe this is just how grief feels like for some of us. Never fully coming to terms with death, but just getting used to it. We get used to the person's absence, but we never stop hurting. And then eventually, we get used to the pain too.

People ask me why I sometimes make jokes about dying. Maybe this is why. Because I know how easily it can take people I love away. But also, because it terrifies me. It has taken people I love away. Perhaps by joking about it, death would cringe and recoil, and hopefully stay away from me.

We mourn even as we carry on and laugh at life's absurdities, but also when does sorrow end? Does it ever? Or does it only transform into a weird, odd sense of humor as a coping mechanism?

Spoiler alert on De Sequerra's essay: when they were trying to exhume his dad's bones, they realized that it hasn't fully decomposed. It was grisly and upsetting, but also, considering the author's relationship with the father and the sense of absurdity surrounding the whole incident - it was oddly comforting for me. Funny, but sad. I know that feeling. Equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

On a similar note: At my uncle's funeral, there was a moment where he couldn't fit in the tomb. They lowered the casket at a bad angle, and it wouldn't get in. A parallel incident happened when he was being brought into the morgue. (He was a pretty big guy.) I was there both times; I was crying and shaking my head in both instances. Inside, I could hear my conscience scolding me - "Ano ba yan, we're supposed to be sad, eh bakit may nakakatawa?" I don't know. I am not nearly mature enough, surprisingly, to have a clear-cut answer to this question. I still manage to keep my composure while wiping my tears anyway. Because how else to deal with this sadness, other than trying to find the hilarity, the absurdity in it all?

The minutiae of death are messy. But of life - of life after someone's death - even messier. I am managing just fine, I think. But I allow myself to cry every now and then, alone and in silence, because I feel like it's my way of honoring my loved ones. And also, it's my way of reminding myself that sure, life goes on for the rest of us, but it doesn't mean we have to move on completely.

I cry to remember. And maybe it's because I really never want to forget.

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Lighthousekeeping

I looked back at you. These moments that are talisman and treasure. Cumulative deposits – our fossil record – and the beginnings of what happens next. They are the beginning of a story, and the story we will always tell.

I passed the bar!

(Well, technically, I still have to take the oath and sign the roll. But the most difficult hurdle is over!)

It has been almost a week since the results came out but I am still trying to wrap my head around the idea that I'm finally — finally — a lawyer. How did this happen? How is this even possible? Am I hallucinating? Is this all a dream? This is surreal. I passed the bar. Wow.

For the first time in more than a decade, I can finally heave a huge sigh of relief. This is it, I've finally reached the finish line. After this, no more class, no more studying. Only life awaits. To quote a Hold Steady song, this must be how a resurrection really feels.

__

June 2017: Graduate from law school ✓
November 2017: Take the bar ✓
April 2018: Pass the bar ✓

To have reached the finish line and to succeed — completely beyond my wildest dreams. I am humbled by the grace the Lord has shown me as He carried me through this victory.

The last few days have been surreal. I still can't believe how things turned out. From the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone who sent their love. I couldn't have done this without you. Forever grateful to my parents, family, friends, loved ones, Loved One (hehe), sisses, professors, lecturers, blockmates, batchmates, reviewmates, officemates — everyone who cheered me on and believed in me.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel indeed. What a feeling. ♥

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Never Not Love You: A Review

Never Not Love You is a simple movie. It is quiet and still, letting its pauses speak louder than its lines. In its simplicity, truths are found - a lot of them almost too real, too painful to see unfold. But like a late-night motorcycle ride, coming to terms with these truths on-screen is joyful and scary all at the same time. It makes you feel terrified, but also, alive. It is not your typical Filipino romantic film but it is very much a typical Pinoy love story.

The premise boils down to the same essential question of how far we are willing to go for love. How much of yourself do you give up for the one you love, and how much of this sacrifice becomes a part of who you are?

Dreams are the driving force of this film. This is not a premise we haven’t seen before. We’ve seen it in La La Land, we’ve seen it in Sana Maulit Muli. In many ways, Never Not Love You asks the same questions. The ambiguity of a definitive answer, however, is what sets it apart.
We all know this story: a carefree man falls for a simple girl with big dreams. Joanne wants to be successful and provide for her family; Gio just wants to be happy. These two dreams are not mutually exclusive. But as we all know, they are not always within reach either, especially when the difficulties of life get in the way.

We all know this story: like most of us, they’re not chasing fame or money. They just want satisfaction in a job that gives them sustenance and stability. But with this comes a lot of sacrifice - sacrifice founded on commitment, but also sacrifice that can turn to resentment. Such is the problem that lies at this pragmatic take on a love story.

Two scenes worthy of comparison stand out out to me: one, when they were in Zambales, talking about their dreams, basking in the glow of sunlight - and in their love. This best encapsulates the giddy feeling of a first kiss, the exciting notion of seeing a glimpse of your future with someone. “I just want to be happy.” Don’t we all? It was said with so much optimism, so much carelessness, with no clue about what lies ahead. Kind of makes you remember the first time you talked to a great love about a future, a blurry image of a someday that may include each other.

And then we have that scene where they decide to “renew their vows,” i.e. have their ring finger tattoos re-inked. They were no longer the naive young adults who, on a whim, decided to live together and get matching tattoos. They have weathered years apart, pursued their dreams together and separately, evolved into people their old selves would not recognize. The look on their faces in the ending of the movie notwithstanding, this is a story of two people who made a commitment - and stuck to it. And this is where Never Not Love You strays from a typical romantic movie. Because instead of giving us a clear “Yep, it all ended well,” or “No, they went their separate ways,” - we get two people who made a choice. Is that choice out of love or out of convenience? Only life will tell. Who can say how love dictates our choices? After all, sometimes, choosing to stay is an act of love - one shaped by sacrifice and an understanding of how the years can tear away layers of affection. Besides, who is to rule out a kind of love that sighs, that looks tired, that feels weary? That belief is naive, as naive as telling someone “It’s so easy to be happy,” just after giving them a kiss. Life has thrown them shit, but they managed. Maybe, that’s enough affirmation.

Because this is a "LDR" movie, some beats are to be expected. Some parts of the narrative felt like they needed to be there just to establish the difficulties of being in such a relationship. The arguments felt real - but also, at times, repetitive. In some parts, I felt that the progression of their characters never fully came to fruition. Which is a shame, because I think the ending scene itself could have been more compelling had the lead up to it been less passive.

Nevertheless, the risks taken were reminders of what this movie was going for: not simply kilig, but realism. The truth that love is never constant. It can make you jaded. But just because it's tired doesn't mean it's gone.

So is this a movie about love, or is it about ambition? Never Not Love You tries to find a middle ground for both. Its narrative is built on trying to find a resolution, but never really getting one. As with most Jadaone projects, the characters try to find answers in the places where the story takes them. Whereas in La La Land, Los Angeles serves as the fantastic backdrop to the struggle between the two, here, the gloomy, overcast skies of London highlight the gloom of being away from what is comforting and familiar. Even the neon-lit streets of Makati and fluorescent glow of 7-11 visually underscores how fleeting some pleasures can be, and how joy is not always found in what is temporary.

My favorite scene highlights what I love best about the movie and the questions it dared to ask: after a long day at work, Joanne receives a video call from Gio, who is walking by the Thames River. He asks a Pinay street performer to sing Sugarfree’s “Prom” - their song - for Joanne. This isn’t the first time we hear the song in the movie, but this time, we hear it differently than the first. The characters are no longer nestled comfortably into each other’s arms, no longer racing through the road with only their helmets and each other. They are separated by time zones, in cities that hold no assurances but bustles with promise. And yet, they somehow find a way to walk to and from work together, hypothetically holding hands, engrossed in the same song. We’ve seen this before, we’ve been in this before: missing someone so badly and trying so hard to close that distance. It hit the chord right by bringing on the screen something realistic to all of us: the struggle of aspiring for dreams and the sacrifice of our loved ones to help get us there.

It’s charming how the choice of song, “Prom” is one that evokes memories of high school. Of youth. Of hopeful longing. Far from being a mere cliched rom-com vehicle, Never Not Love You is a film that explores the reality of navigating the consequences of our decisions, as young people and eventually as adults, be it out of love or out of ambition. “Matapos man ang sayaw / pangakong ‘di ka bibitaw,” so goes the closing lines of the song. This might be a bit too on the nose, but it sends the message: love is a choice. It fades, it changes. But who is to say that a weathered love is any less real?

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Signs of life

Hello. So I'm still alive. A lot has happened since the last time I wrote, although I'm not sure if all that has passed is really worth recapping. What's there to tell you anyway? Not much. Basically, the gist of the last year or so was this: I was holed up in a room and studying.

Now I'm out of that room, but inside another room, and working.

Life is funny sometimes. If you asked me four years ago, "Is this where you imagined yourself to be?" the answer is both yes and no. Yes, because of course I was expecting to be employed by this time, after having taken a break post-exam. But also, no, I had no idea I'd be doing this, working for a practice I genuinely enjoy. Who knew there's a place for me in this world after all?

I am traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling

"All I really, really, want is our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too."

It took me almost a decade since I first heard this song before I finally understood the love you were singing about. And now that I have, it feels like there is nothing in the world I cannot overcome. A love that seeks to keep on giving is a love that will never run out. Love from family, from friends, from a person who makes you feel safe — when you have that in your life, what is there to fear?

This month is about overcoming a lot of things. And accepting that the journey that got me here is a reward in itself. Whatever happens, there is light waiting for me on the other side.

Happy birthday, Joni Mitchell — songwriter, artist, lover, Scorpio.

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Now Playing: Something from three different decades

Don't get me wrong, I love John Frusciante just as much as every other fan, and I truly think that it was his style and amazing ability that shaped the Chili Peppers sound that we know of today. (Although much respect is to be given to Hillel Slovak, let's admit that most of the RHCP songs we know are from both Frusciante eras.) Any time I watch an RHCP concert with John, it's like witnessing an apparition. (My favorite is their Live at Slane Castle.) To say that his skills are god-like would be a complete understatement. Listen to the opening riffs of "Snow (Hey Oh)" or the guitar solo at the end of "Dani California" in any of their live performances — a good introduction to their style for anyone who hasn't heard of them — if you're not convinced.

But. I have a soft spot for Dave Navarro's short tenure with the band. I don't know if it's because I generally like underdogs — in this case, the guy people never root for, the guy people hate on and mention right away when asked "Who was the worst RHCP guitarist??" on random online forums, the guy the band members themselves want to forget about — or, I just don't know enough about these things and the musicality of it all to make a proper judgment. But for whatever reason, I just really dig the whole dark, full-on rock aesthetic the Chili Peppers took on during his stay.

Truth is, I didn't really listen to songs from OHM except for "Aeroplane" until a few months ago when my boyfriend upgraded my Spotify to Premium (one of his grad gifts, haha), and I decided to explore their entire discography for study music. But even before this, I didn't think Dave Navarro was a bad fit. In fact, another favorite RHCP live performance of mine is "Blood Sugar Sex Magik" from Woodstock 1994, with Dave at the helm. I know it's a Frusciante-penned song, but damn it, Dave just effin' slayed that song. This is one of those rare instances where, yes, Dave >>> John. The song just became so much more edgy and insane. The riffs went from kinda funky to hardcore, and ugh I just love it so much. (Can you tell??)

Anyway, I got around to giving the Dave Navarro-era some love because I needed new songs to listen to. Needless to say, I loved it so much more than I expected. Please don't throw stones at me and say, "What, you like RHCP when they're less funky?? Not a true fan!" I don't care. I loved it. It was definitely a different flavor than what we — and apparently the band — were used to, but I think it shouldn't be swept under the rug as a forgettable album. It's definitely up there with the good ones, and deserve some more recognition, at least for me. The record was rough and hard and harsh — in a good, incredibly satisfying way. It's something right up my alley, honestly. If you think about it, it's amazing how much their sound changes and evolves with each new guitarist, and especially with One Hot Minute, it really seems like a very Dave record. It's so distinct. I wish the guys remained friendly with each other, if only so they could work on even just one new track, or at least perform some songs from the OHM era. But, alas, I'll content myself with Spotify and YouTube for my RHCP+Dave fix. Thank you Internet.

(P.S. I'll talk about my love for Flea and Chad Smith some other time.)

You Gotta Go There To Come Back, Stereophonics (2003)

Okay so it's no secret that even after many, many years since high school, "Dakota" is still my jam. Name whatever device I have, that song is there. It's been with me on my iPod classic crying over useless high school drama, and it's still with me here as I struggle my way through review. But I wish I could say the same for the other Stereophonics albums. Because apparently they're all freakin' great.

For a long time, I thought my favorite Stereophonics songs were all on Language.Sex.Violence.Other. But turns out, many of them were in either You Gotta Go There To Come Back and Push The Pin. This ignorance is a result of high school senior / college freshman me just downloading songs off Limewire, so I knew squat about where these tracks came from. But now that I know better (LOL) I decided to revisit these old songs I used to just hear on 00's teen shows. And to no one's surprise, these albums are fantastic.

Honesty time: in my teens, I had a few bands that I "fake-liked," — i.e. I only listened to their songs and claimed to like them because I thought they seemed cool. (Shame, 15-year-old, Karla. Or not, because you know, you were just a teenager and didn't know better.) This included Aqualung (I still can't remember any other song aside from "Brighter Than Sunshine"), The Killers, and Foster The People. I've long accepted the fact that I will never like them the way other people do, and it's okay to let them go.

But the Stereophonics, man, there was no pretending there. The few singles that did speak to me then still speak to me now. And the albums from where they came had the same effect. I'm so, so glad I decided to revisit their discography. This 2003 album in particular is so good in its longing and yearning. It's like chasing feelings you can never experience again; like holding on to ghosts that will never haunt you again. Man, it's such a shame that Stereophonics never really took off outside Europe, because this means there's a scarcity of performances and interviews to devour online. This also means there's a very, very slim chance of me seeing them live. (Although with the amount of obscure artists visiting the Philippines, I'm still keeping my fingers crossed.) This record — and the other two albums I mentioned — aged really well. For anyone who wants to dip their toes into some sad (in a good way) Welsh rock, definitely check these ones out.

Concrete and Gold, Foo Fighters (2017)

Let's get this one out of the way: the only other Foo Fighters album I've loved from start to finish was The Colour and The Shape. I have so much respect for Dave Grohl as a vocalist, drummer, default torch-bearer of modern-day Rock Music. (Also for Taylor Hawkins, because drummers are the best.) But the truth is, none of their albums really stand out to me. I know their singles, sure (I still dream of a future moment in my life where "Everlong" will be played in the background, LOL.) Their albums are just okay. Which isn't to say they aren't good — because they are. They're consistently good. It's just that, in the last decade or so, most of their albums have been very, uhm, vanilla. Delicious, but safe. And again, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Who doesn't like vanilla? I bet if you ask ice cream companies, that is their most successful flavor. And really, is there any other more lasting, successful, and genre-defining rock band right now than the Foo Fighters? As far as longevity goes, vanilla isn't a bad path to take.

To quote this line from an FF article I read: "That the Foos’ nearly quarter-century together has produced little in the way of artistic development is exactly the point. Grohl and his pals never set out to write the gospel on modern rock—they only sought to preach it, hammering it into our heads by way of biting hooks and anthemic melodies."

That being said, I think Concrete and Gold is very much an invigorating, exhilarating ride. A typical Foo Fighters album is an above-average one, even without them trying. But this one felt like they really did go out of their way to epistolize something new. The album has its political and critical undertones — but never on the verge of sanctimonious. It's the right kind of encouraging people to the streets — maybe not necessarily to protest (although it can definitely be seen as that), but maybe to free themselves from the shackles of our burdened times. It laments, but also, appeases.

I particularly loved the single "Run." If you close your eyes you can almost imagine yourself in the middle of an arena pumping your fist up in the air with this battle cry. "In another perfect life / we run," Dave sings. And for the next forty-eight minutes, it does feel like nothing can go wrong. You can run. It's anything but a safe, secure sentiment — and it's definitely a freeing one. Although you never really went away, welcome back, Foos.

rude awakenings

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

— Edmund Burke

People are dying on the streets. Rights are being trampled on. Due process is being disregarded. Policemen are crying over their tarnished media image; mothers are crying over their murdered innocent sons. Alleged thieves are being killed without a day in court; actual plunderers are still having the time of their lives with nary a thought to the blood on their hands.

How can people still be so blind? Worse: how can people still be so stupid?

Wake up — they are fucking this country over.

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The capricious seaming of memory

"Memory, and time, both immaterial, are rivers with no banks, and constantly merging. Both escape our will, though we depend on them. Measured, but measured by whom or by what? The one is inside, the other, outside, or so it seems, but is that true? Time seems also buried deep in us, but where? Memory is right here, in the head, but it can exit, abandon the head, leave it behind, disappear. Memory, a sanctuary of infinite patience.

Is memory produced by us, or is it us? Our identity is very likely whatever our memory decides to retain. But let’s not presume that memory is a storage room. It’s not a tool for being able to think, it’s thinking, before thinking. It also makes an (apparently) simple thing like crossing the room, possible. It’s impossible to separate it from what it remembers."

- Etel Adnan (Lebanese-American poet, essayist, philosopher, and visual artist), on the role of memory in the continuity of our personal identity

The other day I had an odd, but strangely familiar dream. I was walking down Freshie Walk, rushing to (or from) class, when I bumped into you. You were alone, and your hair was unkempt. It took me a while to recognize you, because you no longer wore your hair like that - at least outside this dream, which took me a few seconds to realize I was in. I was startled to see you coming up close, and I hesitated if I should greet you.

Then you walked up to me and said, "What are we doing here?"

"Here? You mean, in school?"

"No, I mean, here,"

And I realized in an instant that you meant this realm, this space in time where we aren't together, where our lives haven't yet found their way back to each other. The year was 2008, and it was almost Christmas - I could tell by the "Free Toki" Accenture-sponsored jeep I alighted, and the karaoke-sounding medley of yuletide songs the manong driver was playing.

"What are we doing here?" I ask again.

"Maybe this is where we wish we met,"

"But it would have changed everything."

Then, I no longer recall what happened after. After waking up, it took me a few minutes to process the dream, because it wasn't as vivid or as long as the other ones I do remember. (Truth is, I rarely have dreams, and when I do, they're often super weird. Like, Rick and Morty weird.)

Remembering dreams is such a funny thing. Especially ones that feel so real. It's literally your mind playing tricks on you. I swear, that moment of me rushing through Freshie Walk, only to slow down because I thought I recognized someone approaching me - I know it happened. I felt like it did. But somehow, my brain rewired that memory of having you in it instead, and now I kinda wish it was how it really turned out. Perhaps things would have been way different, and maybe different doesn't necessarily mean worse.

Sometimes I wish a lot of things that happened in college turned out differently. Not because I regret them, but because I think they could have been much better. And it would be nice to see an alternate timeline, where I could be another version of myself that's not exactly a stranger, but someone not as lost, or loud, or worried. I could have taken more risks, I could have been more ambitious. I would have written about you, and not have been unafraid of so many things. We could have had a lot of fun - a kind of happy that fit that time of our lives. Whereas now, we reward ourselves after work (you) and 200-pages-or-so (me) with a fancy meal, back then a banana shake would have been enough. You know, small things we never got to share because we didn't have the chance then.

This is how my mind plays with me these days. My mind is often tired, and it is running on autopilot. But it still - at least - dares to dream. Literally. It gives me things to feel happy about, thoughts to keep me company. It is not content with reading academic words on pages; it still writes its own stories every now and then.

So now, a part of me wishes to go back in time just to see how nice it would have been to share those with you. The present is great, and the future something to look forward to. But there is a bittersweet kind of longing for this past we never shared, a yearning accompanied by this curiosity, both piqued and left unsatisfied by my subconscious playing tricks on me. This is how this mind works: it remembers you in places you were never in. It is aware of its deception, but also, innocuous with its intentions. Well-meaning, even. It is very much grounded with what is real, but also, enjoys in playing with what isn't. "My memories form a forest with unstable boundaries," Adnan says. Memory sews together events that hadn’t previously met. It reshuffles the past and makes us aware that it is doing so. Sometimes, it leads to unexpected results - like seeing you in a faux memory and you knowing where we were - but always, always interesting ones.

And it is so accurate. Ever since I saw this film on IMAX, I felt like a warrior was ready to rip herself out of my chest. I was so pumped, so amazed, so awed. It was the story of one woman - a strong, ideal, almost-perfect goddess - and yet, in so many ways, it was also incredibly human.

Unfortunately, this isn't going to be a proper review of the movie. (Although it's definitely a 12/10 for me.) But I'd like to take the time to write about something that is so incredibly rare for me these days: to find something so inspiring. Seeing Wonder Woman embrace this whole idea of being brave amidst it all for the common good - it's uplifting. And truth is, I really needed that.

And these days, don't we all?

__

(Yeah, sometimes, I spend my short breaks reading superhero comics. When the weight of it all becomes too heavy to bear, I like jumping into a world where the lines between good and bad are clearly drawn. Where we know who the good guys and the bad guys are. I guess it's my way of coping with all this grief and sadness and anger; some sort of coping mechanism.)

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At last

This is the result of nine years in UP: finally that Sablay on my left shoulder with the purple tassel on it. It still feels surreal. This is what I've been working on for most of my adult life: getting good grades in high school so I can enter a good university, working my ass off in college to land a spot in law school, crying myself to sleep just to get that juris doctor degree. And now here we are! Is it really the end? How the hell did I make it??? I can't believe it's been 10 years since I took the UPCAT. And wasn't it only yesterday that I wrote it a love letter, of sorts, after graduating from college?

I know I sound like a broken record, but man, UP really was my dream school. My family (especially my Tita Gina) did a great job of going all Inception on me ever since I was young. They were pretty consistent in making me believe that it was a place where dreams came true.

Was it everything I expected it to be? Yes, and no. It has its failures: it is just like the outside world. Some people are terrible, some ideas are trash, some institutions should be reformed. But at the same time, it is nothing like anything else out there. There is kindness, there is wisdom, there is love. There is comfort in knowing that when people come together with great ideas and with compassion, so much good can be done.

Wow. I guess this is really it.

Thank you, UP, for the privilege of being nurtured by you. I hope one day I can repay the taxpayers for the eight-and-a-half-years of funding for my tuition. I promise you, I'll do you proud one day. Just you wait :)

Someone finds salvation in everyone, and another only pain

So this is how it feels to lose one of your heroes. His music has been a quiet friend to me for all these years. Audioslave and Soundgarden were cornerstones of my adolescent life - and eventually, much of my young adulthood. Even his solo albums were permanent residents of playlists on any of my gadgets. I can't count how many times his songs have given me comfort, even in times when I thought I didn't really need it.

I never knew you, I never saw you live, but I feel so devastated. Ang sakit-sakit naman, Chris Cornell. Rest easy.

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Places

“We depend on our surroundings obliquely to embody the moods and ideas we respect and then to remind us of them. We look to our buildings to hold us, like a kind of psychological mould, to a helpful vision of ourselves. We arrange around us material forms which communicate to us what we need — but are at constant risk of forgetting what we need — within. We turn to wallpaper, benches, paintings and streets to staunch the disappearance of our true selves.”

– The Architecture of Happiness, Alain de Botton

Why do we feel like we belong in some places and not in others? It's interesting to me how the idea of a physical space can have so much impact on our identities - no matter that it's our first time there, or our thousandth. It's also interesting how our relationship with a place evolves: like how a place we dislike will later on become monuments of a certain part of our lives that we will eventually look back on nostalgically.

I think my favorite part of going on a trip is getting this feeling of "I belong," on the most random of places. I can honestly say that I don't see myself permanently residing abroad ever - but I'm going to lie if I say that there aren't parts of other countries where I can imagine myself being a part of its picture. There are places that resonated with certain parts of me, echoes that only the inner, most secret versions of myself could hear. And it was oddly comforting event though physically - all senses considered - they are alien.

Consider this carousel: before my trip, I only saw it once, on a video montage featuring a particular love team. But my feelings for said pairing notwithstanding - I instantly felt so much joy and excitement. Like I've never seen a carousel before - even though I have, a hundred times. I don't even like riding carousels. Something about it just spoke to me - maybe the colors? The innocence of children's laughter? The chilly, snuggle-appropriate weather? Whatever it was, it spoke to a part of me that longed for carefree, happy Saturday afternoons.

What does that say about me? A lot, but also, maybe, not much.

"Place makes memories cohere in complex ways," writes architectural historian Dolores Hayden. And I think that's true. How else can we have a memory of something if it doesn't have a setting? A backdrop?

I don't have a steady grasp of my "true self" lately. I'm not sure how much of my likes and dislikes right now are permanently part of "Karla, the person." But I'd like to think that this year is going to be all about reconciling these impulses to the identity. I'm in for a long period of introspection inside my room - aside from all the studying, of course. Personalities change, just as much as surroundings do. But the self can change too even when the place does not. Here's to hoping I like whatever version of me that comes out from this cocoon of a year.

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Faculty Center: One last look

I went to UP yesterday to fix my clearance; and on my way to the OUR I just had to pass by this place again. It's been more than a year since the fire, and it still stings. I was there that night. My friends and I went to accompany another friend, a professor at the History department who thought he could still salvage his things.

As I stood in the same spot I did a year ago, I was again reminded of everything that was lost in the flames - records, undergrad theses, thousands of books, costumes, scripts, poems, novels, works of art, memories. Stories. Corners and corridors that witnessed our every failure and joy. Sometimes, I still wonder, how can its end be so cruel? To have left absolutely nothing behind but ashes?

I stood in front of it yesterday with a heavy heart - heavier than my usual sentiments of missing CAL as I crawled my way through law school. Turns out, today the building is being demolished. FC was home, perhaps even more so than Malcolm ever was. And to lose it so permanently just as my stay in UP was ending - it felt like salt on my battle wounds.

But if there's anything I learned as a student of this college, it's that there is beauty to be found in starting over. Stories end, time passes. Life comes and goes, often taking away parts of us we can never get back. The most we can hope for is that this sadness will eventually carry us through. To new narratives, new perspectives, new meanings. For now, we grieve. Tomorrow - as with all tomorrows - we will pick up our pens and write again.

Signs of Life: Back from the US

I came back from the US about a week ago but have just recently re-adjusted my body to the nights and days on this part of the world. I was gone for twenty-one days, on a time zone sixteen hours away. And I have nothing to complain about - I had a fantastic time, I visited places I've only dreamt of seeing and I wish I could write about all of it.

But as I'll have you all know, I'm on a tight schedule. The trip was meant to be my graduation gift, after finally finishing my law studies (in nine semesters - hahaha). I took it early this year for a reason, and that is, so I can go back and focus on my review for the bar. So while I spent the last three weeks happily gallivanting around San Francisco and Los Angeles (and a small part of San Jose), it also meant I had to work on my calendar so that I am not behind on my preferred study schedule.

I know, I know, isn't it too early, blah blah blah. But four-and-a-half years in law school have taught me what I needed to know about myself, and that is, I'm only good at procrastinating when I'm writing. Not so much on my studying. So if I can get a head start on things as soon as I can, that will be terrific.

As such, I won't be having the luxury of writing about the entire trip as lengthily as I want to - at least for the moment. I just wanted to give you guys (the four or five of you who might still be reading this thing, LOL) a quick update on what's been going on in my life. And at least give this blog some signs of life.

Maybe I'll find the time to write during my study breaks; maybe not. But at least, consider this my notice to the world. I'm back, but also, not really. :))

She's a modern lover; it's an exploration, she's made of outer space

Hello, I'm Karla Bernardo. If you Google my name, you will find the Wikipedia entry of a Canadian serial-killer (and trust me, you do not want
to read about that - but I'm sure you will because now you're curious), which is why I suggest you type Bombastarr instead so you can stalk me better.

I spent eight-and-a-half years of my life in the University of the Philippines, where I graduated with degrees in Creative Writing and Juris Doctor. It is also where I learned how to speak a bit of Italian, got a taste of the best tapsilog, and took striptease for PE.

Ask, and you shall be answered

Got a comment, question, violent reaction, love letter, or random piece of information you want to share with me? Just fire away. I don't bite.

(I changed my form and went back to Freedback because Ask.fm's being a bitch, requiring people to sign up for accounts before asking questions. Because I love you guys, I tweaked my ask box a bit, so that the questions will now go directly to my e-mail, but I'll be posting the answers still on my Ask.fm for convenience. TL;DR - I'll still be getting your questions so no worries. You're still free to harass me / send me your love.)

Most Frequently Asked Question

Are you a pornstar?No, I am not a pornstar, stripper, or your friendly neighborhood call girl. It's just a fancy pseudonym with a long history, and two R's. Rawr.

Bombastarr.com

Bombastarr is my personal blog and my little corner in the Internet since 2005. Yes, I started writing here when I was 13 years old (aka when I was very angsty, hormonal, and always gushing at the littlest things) -- ergo, you'd have to forgive me if you come across an old post that reeks of immaturity and slightly unpolished grammar. I did a lot of growing up here, and from the looks of it, there's still a lot of growing up to do, so I don't think I'll be leaving this place any time soon.

The domain, Bombastarr.com, was purchased on June 2014 and
launched on July 2014, on the blog's ninth year (and fifth month, to be exact).

It's crazy to think that this blog is now thirteen years old, because (1) that seems like an eternity in internet years, and (2) that means if my blog were a kid, it's a teenager! That's insane.

Here's to more tales, explosive and otherwise.

So, why Bombastarr?

If you've been living under a rock and think I'm a threat to world peace or an object of covetousness, sorry to disappoint you, folks: it's just a fancy pseudonym.

As in most things, it started in high school. It began as a joke between me and a couple of friends during our freshman year. We were practicing for a field demonstration dance which involved the use of shawls, and being the crazy-always-trying-to-be-funny person that I was (or I always attempted to be) I started doing poses with the garment. Someone started taking my picture using my phone, and one shot looked like I was posing for those B-list movies (or should it be R-list, as in R-rated?) of the vegetable-nomenclature variety. #IKYWIM. Hence, the word, "Bombastarr." Yes, very cheeky, I know, but for a 13-year-old, it was quirky enough to figure as a username. That was 2005, right around the time I trying to decide on a URL for a new blog. It's been a lot of years since, and what started as a joke became something I've eventually embraced as an identity.

Despite the many other chances I've gotten to permanently move (to Multiply, Livejournal, Tumblr, Wordpress; to a bigger platform where I can earn or use the blog as a venue for commerce), I've come to realize that Bombastarr is something I can never truly leave behind. It is a place I've grown to appreciate and love because it is a place I can call my own. It's a venue for my rants, my views, my writing. It is home, and it is who I am.

Bombastarr is a glimpse of my life: the thoughts, ideas, and stories that shape it into what it is, and what it will still become. This journal has been with me for all my crazy, often embarrassing adventures, but I'm sure there will be more anecdotes and feelings and people to write about. Which is something I'm really looking forward to. After all, you know what they say about the greatest stories - sometimes, there's still a lot that's left unwritten.